Aquatic Nocturne
by Twinings
Summary: Thoughts that found a maze of mermaid hair Tangling in the tide's green fall Now fold their wings like bats and disappear Into the attic of the skull.  CATverse 3.9


_Miraculous disclaimer of joy and doom: I don't own any characters in the DC 'verse...**DUHRRR.**_

_This is a CATfic (www. freewebs. com/ catverse) which falls in late May, 2012, shortly after BiteMeTechie's "The Meaning of Lurve" and before my "CopyCAT."_

* * *

Aquatic Nocturne

"The weather's getting warmer, you know," Al said, like Selina Kyle remarking that the Cat's Eye Emerald was being displayed in a low-security museum case.

Jonathan Crane glared at his young minion, forestalling any signs of affection with a look.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It's warm enough to go swimming."

"Be my guest. But leave me out of it." He tried to move past her to the door to his lab. She blocked his way.

"Squishykins…you promised."

"_You_ promised not to call me that. You promised you would stay out of my way. You promised—"

"I promised I wouldn't let you die for some stupid-ass reason that could be easily avoided. And don't think a premature death will be enough to get me away from me. You _know_ your version of Hell is going to be an eternity of strip poker with me and the girls."

He backed away.

"Do _not_ get any ideas, young lady."

She latched on to his arm and looked up at him, wide-eyed and pouty. The effect was…disturbing. He pulled out of her grasp.

"I'm not giving up," she said sweetly.

"I'm not giving in," he snapped back.

In the end, it didn't take much imagination to see how this would turn out.

--

"I'm not taking my clothes off," he snapped.

"Squishy, you can't swim fully—"

"No."

Fine. Just lose the shoes." Al stripped down to the bathing suit she had worn under her costume, and stepped into the pool.

This was Veronica Vreeland's swimming pool, currently unused but always kept ready for her in case she came back early from Paris, or Vienna, or whichever city was the trendy one this year. It was amazing how these people were willing to just let their houses and everything inside sit unattended, with hardly any security at all. Veronica's earrings alone were enough to make Al consider braving a needle to pierce her ears. Her pockets were going to be quite a bit heavier when she left this place, to be sure.

"It's a shame we couldn't get the lights working," she said conversationally. He glared at her.

The place was a little creepy, with nothing but the single light shining up from under the water, sounds echoing the way they always do in an indoor pool. But it also seemed more private this way, which was all to the good. The last thing the Scarecrow wanted was for someone to walk in on what he considered a humiliating situation. Even Techie and the Captain hadn't been allowed to tag along on this particular outing.

Jonathan hesitated at the edge of the pool, fidgeting as he stared at the top step the way one might stare at a poisonous snake that was ready to strike. She knew he wasn't comfortable displaying any kind of vulnerability, and she really couldn't blame him—_she_ wouldn't trust her, in his position. But (she was so proud of this analogy she almost said it out loud) he couldn't wear a suit of armor to a swim lesson.

"Come on in," she said. "The water's fine."

His response was a barely audible grumble.

Al pushed off from the side, floating on her back and looking anywhere but at him. No pressure. Let him come to it in his own time.

A few moments later, she was rewarded by the sound of first one foot, then the other breaking the surface of the water.

Excellent.

"You're not carrying any fear toxin, are you?" she asked. He said nothing, but she soon heard the sound of his jacket hitting the floor.

Well! She hadn't expected _that_ part to be so easy. He couldn't be happy depriving himself of his only weapon, but he was too intelligent to ruin it by getting it wet. Good boy.

She sneaked a peek, and saw that he still hadn't moved from the top step.

"Take off your glasses," she said. He took a step back.

"No!"

Al stopped floating, stood up, and glared at him.

"Take. Them. Off."

"I need them to _see_."

"And just what do you think you're going to see tonight, Mister? Swimming has nothing to do with eyesight. It's all about kinesthesis. So take off your glasses and get in the pool."

He did the opposite. He got out.

"I've changed my mind. This obviously isn't going to work out."

With a sigh, Al swam over to the edge and followed him up onto dry land.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Squishykins. I didn't think you were such a coward." He didn't take the bait. She tried a different approach. "Can I see your glasses for a minute?"

"Of course not."

"But I just want to show you something." He waved her away.

"No means no!"

Al scowled. When that got no reaction, she snatched the glasses off his face and ran.

"You—you—_give those back_!"

"Make me!" she called back. She heard him chasing her. Perfect. Skidding on the slick floor, she turned to face him. He very nearly slammed into her.

"Give them _back_!" he repeated. She held the glasses behind her back, out of his reach, glad he hadn't thought to grab a vial of fear toxin before coming at her.

"I'm sorry to have to do it this way," she said, and when he was off balance lunging for the glasses, she planted a hand in the middle of his chest and shoved.

The splash was spectacular. Al shook the water out of her eyes, folded his glasses and put them in a safe place, and popped in after him.

She had heard that the best way to teach a child to swim was to throw him in the water and hope for the best, but she didn't believe that. It didn't seem to be working for Jonathan, anyway. He was floundering, kicking up quite a stir, and when she reached him, he clung to her more from sheer panic than from any murderous intent. That didn't stop him from shoving her head under the water, but she didn't think it was intentional. The lack of killing rage wouldn't last, though, so once she had dragged him over to the edge, she stayed just long enough to make sure he was holding on (with a desperate, white-knuckled grip) before she launched herself to the other side of the pool.

"Sorry," she called.

"You—_you!_—Did you take out an insurance policy on me when I wasn't looking?"

She laughed. He didn't.

"Now that you're in the water, do you want to continue with the lesson?"

"_No_!"

He wasn't breathing properly, so she didn't press it.

"I really am sorry," she said. "It's not that I _want_ to fight dirty…"

"_Never_ do that again," he snapped. "_Ever_, do you hear me?"

"Hey, if you want to kill me, I'm right here. Come and get me."

He seriously considered that, measured the distance between them, and decided against it.

"Why don't _you_ come _here_?"

"Because I'm not an idiot," she replied. "And if I'm dead, it might impede my ability to teach somewhat."

He went sullen and quiet then, but she took encouragement from the fact that he wasn't trying to climb out.

"Want to try something that involves holding on to the side?" she suggested. He glared at her. "I don't think you're being a baby. I just think it's a good place to start."

"Al?"

"Yes, Squishy?"

"Stop talking."

She gave him a minute or two to brood. Then she swam back over to his side of the pool, careful to stay out of grabbing range.

"Stretch out."

The look he gave her said, "You have _got_ to be kidding."

"It's easy," she said. "Just hold on tight and kick." Keeping a reassuring grip on the wall, she demonstrated. Halfheartedly, he followed her lead. "What's wrong, Squishy?"

"You _pushed _me, remember?"

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I always manage to scare the crap out of you when I'm just trying to help. I'm sorry. But you know I'm not going to let anything hurt you. You know that, don't you?"

"Al…" For a moment, he didn't sound angry, just tired. "Do you have _any_ experience with the nuances of social interaction?"

"Not much," she admitted. "We've worked out a perfect system over the years. I'm the wheels, Captain gets us food, and Techie makes strangers too uncomfortable to approach us. They have to deal with people every once in a while, but I almost never do. It's perfect."

The splashes from behind him became a bit more energetic.

"Remind me again how you shut-ins came to be here with me."

"We…um…well…you needed us," she said lamely.

"I have never needed you," he snapped.

"What about when—"

"Al!"

"What?"

"Stop talking!"

Without another word, she moved away from him, still kicking slowly in the water. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. When he seemed a bit easier to deal with—when he didn't look like he was kicking the water _to death_—she tried again.

"Squishy?" He turned his head ever so slowly to glare at her. "What's the matter?"

"I feel like an idiot," he said with an especially violent kick.

"That's because you're still wearing p—"

"You're not taking my pants!"

"They're only dragging you down," she said, but didn't press the issue. Instead she asked, "What are you so mad about?" He didn't answer. "Okay, I pushed you. I _said_ I was sorry."

Jonathan stopped kicking and came to rest against the wall.

"Why don't you take a few minutes to think about that apology, and then get back to me."

"Did I _say_ something wrong?" she asked cluelessly. He resumed kicking. "I'm sorry I pushed you."

"You should be."

"And I'm sorry I scared you."

He sighed.

"Doesn't that strike you as the slightest bit inappropriate?" Her brow furrowed.

"What, so…it's okay to _cause_ fear, but it's not okay to talk about it?"

Splash, splash, splash.

"I…I think that's enough kicking," she said. He jerked away when she tried to take his arm to pull him away from the wall. "Oh, come on, Jonathan. Don't be difficult. I just want you to come to the shallow end."

"_Why_?"

"Because I'm going to teach you to float, and it'll be safer if you can put your feet down if you get in trouble. Plus, if _I_ can touch the bottom, I'll be able to hold you up. Remember, the point of this is for you _not_ to drown." She tugged on his sleeve. "Come, come, come."

Reluctantly, he let her pull him toward the stairs—and away from the wall.

"Can you touch the bottom comfortably from there?" she asked.

"Of course I can." What did she think he was doing, walking on water?

"Good," she said, unperturbed. "Keep your feet on the floor. Just the balls of your feet, that's all you need. Feel how light you are here. Let your toes know what it's like to feel the floor under them. Feel how much control it takes to hold yourself steady. Let your arms float. They'll help with your balance. Don't fight the water, and it won't fight you. Try to keep your fingers together, and move your arms back and forth through the water. See how the currents you create move you? Everything you do has an effect. It ripples and spreads."

"Are you going to turn this into a lesson in Zen?" he grumbled. He already felt foolish enough without letting her wax philosophical.

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Squishykins, and sometimes I _just_ want to get you used to the water." She waited for his retort. He gave her nothing more than a glare. "Okay, you feel the bottom, all slick and smooth under your toes?"

"Yes."

"Do you trust it?"

"Do I_ what_?"

"Do you trust the solid ground?"

"I…yes, I guess so." It was solid ground. What more did she want?

"Push off."

"_What_?"

"Push off the ground. Let it go and trust the water. It's easy to do. Just push yourself toward me."

"Are you insane?"

"Yes. Now humor me."

Fine. He could humor her. He bent his knees slightly, looked back at her to judge the distance…hesitated…

"What I the point of this?" he asked. Al sighed.

"I want you to be able to rescue yourself. If you're floating and you start to go down, you put your feet down and push yourself into shallower water. I'm not going to let you get hurt, but I want you to be able to help yourself. Okay? So push off."

He did.

He didn't go far. His feet went out from under him—his head went under the water—his back hit the floor—he panicked, thrashing with his arms instead of simply standing up.

Then a hand seized the collar of his shirt, and Al pulled him up. She held him while he found his footing, and let him go only when she thought he was about done coughing.

"You okay?" Al asked. He waved her away. "You swallow some water?" She really was sympathetic; pool water wasn't the most pleasant thing to swallow. She could give him a little break from swimming. "You think I'm joking, but I'm not. Your clothes are doing nothing but dragging you down. Are you wearing something under your shirt?"

"Yes," he said reluctantly.

"Then what's the problem? Take it off. I'm not going to see anything, and you'll be able to move a lot more freely."

"Oh, _fine_, if it will shut you up! But I don't want to hear _one word_ about—about—_anything_! Do you understand?" He got the shirt unbuttoned, but crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to let it so much as fall open until he had her agreement.

"You know I don't want to hurt you, right?" He glared at her. "Okay, I'll restrain myself. I promise."

"Fine," he said grudgingly, and took off his shirt. She glanced at his bare shoulders, expression perfectly neutral, and didn't say a word. He turned to deposit his wet shirt on the floor.

"Squishy," Al gasped. He heard her coming up behind him, and edged away.

"You were going to restrain yourself—do I have to remind you already?"

"But…" She touched his shoulder, fingertips tentatively brushing the scar tissue left by a long-ago bullet wound. "What's…"

"Overzealous police." He shrugged, breaking contact. "It happens to the best of us." She moved closer, still trying to touch him, as if the tactile sensation would make more sense of the wound.

"Did it hurt?"

"Of course it hurt! It left a scar, didn't it?" She looked like she wanted to burst into tears. He added, "But it was just a flesh wound." He tried to turn away, only to bring her hand into contact with his chest instead. She kept it there, gazing up at him, lower lip trembling. He realized that he couldn't back up any farther.

Through the single layer of a thin, wet undershirt, she could feel things she never would have in the course of a fully-clothed hug—even if he had allowed one to go on as long as _this_ travesty of all things Scarecrow.

"What's this?" she whispered.

"Stop touching me." He had to push her hand away. "Stop _touching _me, Al."

"But, what happened?"

"A…test subject slipped his restraints." He had to turn away from her. He had never seen her looking quite so open and _vulnerable_, and to be frank, it was creepy as hell. "There was broken glass involved. I learned to keep better control of them later."

"Oh, Squishy."

"_Don't_."

He felt a hand on his back, probably meant to be a friendly gesture. She flinched as she discovered still more scars. The network of thin white lines crisscrossing his back predated any injuries he had received as the Scarecrow, and they were so faint that she probably wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been expecting them.

He locked his arms across his chest again and willed himself not to start shaking in front of _her_.

"Who was it?" she asked quietly, with a definite note of menace in her voice.

He pulled away from her. Her _concern_ wasn't making it any easier to control himself.

"It doesn't matter. It's been taken care of."

And the physical scars were, after all, not the deepest marks left by his childhood.

"But, Squishy…"

"_Stop_ it, Al." He pulled away from her.

"No, _you_ stop it!" She spun him around to face her. In doing so, her hand grazed the series of bite marks running down his side, just a fraction of the evidence left behind by the _chew toy incident_. "God _damn_ it, Jonathan, is there any part of you that _isn't_ scar tissue clear down to the bone? Why the smegging _hell_ wouldn't you let us bodyguard you the _first_ time we offered?"

He hit her. It wasn't a conscious decision, and he didn't do her any real harm. He could have called it an accident, blamed his lack of balance from being spun around in the water. But the fact was, he caught her with a backhanded slap to the face. She rocked slightly with the blow and came up hissing.

"That's _one_, Squishy. You get _one_ before I start hitting back. I am not Harley Quinn."

He had so surprised himself that his furious rant had stuck in his throat. Now the anger rose up again.

"And you're not my _girlfriend_—so why don't you just get away from me?"

"Because you need me!" she yelled. "And I'm not going to let you drive me away just because you're acting like an asshole!" He raised his left hand then—to do what, he wasn't quite sure. She stopped him, fingers clamped around his wrist, thumb pressed hard against another old scar, this one not usually noticeable, mostly hidden under the band of his watch. She glanced at it through narrowed eyes, but made no mention of what she must have known it meant. "Stop that, damn you, Squishykins—I'm not going to leave you!"

"_Why not_?"

"Because—" She froze. "I don't _know_ why, okay? I just—I just don't like it when you're hurt. And I'm really not comfortable with the fact that just _thinking_ about someone hurting you makes me want to grab my lucky ginsu knife and disembowel anyone who dares come near you." He wasn't aware of his right arm curling protectively around his stomach, covering a diagonal scar from a wound that had cut deep—so deep—until he noticed Al's eyes following the movement. She let go of his wrist, horrified. "Oh, Squishy. You _didn't_. Tell me you haven't been…"

"Disemboweled?" he snapped. "Stop _looking_ at me like that." She wasn't supposed to be _looking_ at him like that, like the world was going to come crashing down around them if he didn't let her give him a hug. What did _she_ care if he'd made a stupid miscalculation years ago, and walked right into the swing of his own scythe? It hadn't killed him. Not quite.

"What _happened_?"

"It was my own fault. I made a mistake, Al, that's all."

"But what happened?" Her hands were gripping his shoulders, the very closest he would allow her to come to a hug without shoving her away. She was—concerned. She was really _bothered_ by this, and while part of him wanted to play on her fear, the rest of him was annoyed with his own inability to do so. It was, after all, not the most pleasant memory he had.

"It was an accident with a scythe, if you _must_ know. I had traps set up, and then I let Batman scare me into walking into one."

"_Batman_ did this to you?" She threw her arms around him. He flinched. "I'll kill him!" He stared down at her as he tried very carefully to remove himself. What part of _my own fault_ didn't she understand? "I'll beat his face in with a shovel! I'll—I'll—do you want me to return the favor? I can make him live long enough to make use of the intestines! We can make a noose out of the duodenum! Is that long enough? The small intestine, then! We'll strangle him with his small intestine!"

"Al, stop. I'm fine." And she would _never_ manage to carry out her threats against Batman, amusing though it might be to watch her try.

"Oh, sure, you're fine _now_, but what about _next _time? What if you get decapitated next time?! I DON'T WANT YOU TO **DIE**! Fucktard!"

"Al, stop shouting," he whispered. Her voice was casting weird echoes, but he thought he'd heard another sound that shouldn't have been there.

"But—"

He hugged her. It was the quickest way to shut her up.

She looked up at him, shocked.

"Listen," he hissed. "There's someone here."

She let him go and was out of the pool before he could blink. She posed impressively, staring down a shadow that detached itself from the wall and revealed itself to be...Batgirl.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have Bats!" Al announced, almost chipperly, with a little catch in her voice that he recognized as carefully bridled fury. "I'll get rid of her, boss. One little crimefighter can't be too much of a problem." He declined to explain the truth of the matter to her. In all honesty, Batman's red-headed stepchild was the least likely cape-wearing annoyance to cause any real trouble. And even if she pulled off anything surprising, Al could keep her occupied long enough for him to get away.

Quietly, he went to retrieve his clothes.

"Morning, Batgirl," said Al. "What brings you here?"

"You don't look like the pool boys."

"You don't look like the Batman."

Batgirl looked put out. Al smirked.

Crane pulled on his wet shirt and scanned the darkness for any other bat-shadows. He could see none.

"Don't waste time bantering with her," he said. Al shrugged.

"You want to skip straight to the running?" She turned her attention back to Batgirl. "I should warn you, if you lay a hand on him, I'm going to shove a batarang so far up your ass, you'll be tasting blood for a week."

Taken aback, Batgirl spluttered, "What?"

"Batarang. Ass. You." She launched herself at the other woman, swinging wildly.

Batgirl wasn't exactly helpless against the onslaught, but she _was_ surprised. Crane took his time putting on his jacket and slipped his hand into his pocket, running his fingers across the surface of a capsule of fear toxin.

Batgirl's nose was bleeding, but she had recovered from her surprise, and what Al was doing wasn't exactly "holding her own."

He watched and waited. Not because he was enjoying watching them fight—which he was—but because Al had some anger to work out, and this was as good an outlet as any. Better than letting her cuddle with him, as if he were her personal squeaky toy.

Also, what better way was there to put the fear of god into Batman than to send back one of his sidekicks with a bloody face and a couple of cracked ribs? Implicit message: _How can you protect your city, when you can't even protect your spawn?_

When Batgirl had Al in a headlock, bat-cuffs on one wrist—the other arm free, elbow repeatedly slamming into the heroine's side—he cracked the capsule and tossed it at their feet. Thin, iridescent vapor (this batch had a noticeable orange tinge that hadn't appeared in earlier incarnations) misted upward. Neither of them could avoid breathing it in.

They both fell. They both screamed. But that was where the similarities ended.

Batgirl thrashed, calling out a warning to someone—it sounded like her father, although the cries could have been meant for Batman, assuming the young woman in the batcape wasn't his biological offspring. She seemed to be especially worried about Joker Venom. How perfectly irritating. As if the Scarecrow, Master of Fear, wasn't villain enough to suit her.

Al, though, screamed _once_—a jagged yelp of anguished horror, truly an exquisite sound if ever he'd heard one—and then fell silent, curling into herself and gasping for breath.

Hers was the more interesting reaction. Hers was the one he would have liked to have time to study.

But where a mini-Bat could be found, the real thing was sure to follow. He needed to be gone by the time Batman got there. And, he supposed, he really ought to bring Al with him, if only because it would deprive the Bat of the opportunity to take a sample of her blood for study. He would have to derive his analysis of the latest strain of fear toxin from Batgirl's sample instead—and _she_ wasn't going to make it easy for her mentor to take that sample.

He smiled. He did so enjoy leaving the violent ones to be discovered by good Samaritans.

Kicking the little heroine out of the way, he knelt beside Al and slipped the antidote into her mouth. The tablet form, unlike the airborne toxin, would take a few minutes to affect her, and up to an hour to fully eradicate the effects of the fear. But she would be able to walk, and be lucid enough to know him, and that was all he needed.

He left her to put on his shoes and socks.

When he returned, her face was ashen, and she was…_crying_. She didn't seem to be able to draw a breath, so there was no sound of sobs, but tears were streaming from her eyes.

When he came close, she grabbed onto his ankle and snuggled. He tried to shake her off.

"S—Sq—Squi—"

"Spit it out." He shook his foot at her again, and nearly lost his balance.

"I ca—I can't—"

He sighed. This was going to take forever.

"Up, girl. You're coming with me." He tried to force her to stand.

It was then that it really hit home that she was wearing nothing but a bathing suit. There was no shirt for him to catch hold of. He had to touch _her_.

And didn't she just love putting him through that.

Well, hearing her whimpering and the pathetic way she gasped for breath made any discomfort on his part worthwhile.

He got her up. She hugged him and cried.

He gave Batgirl another kick on his way out. He also stopped to grab Al's trench coat and drape it around her shoulders. Bad enough that he would be dragging a terrified woman through the streets without her looking almost naked as well.

There weren't too many people around, but there was still a chance they would be noticed. Unless—of course.

He reached into Al's pocket for her cell phone. He could call a cab.

The driver would make a handy test subject. The cab itself could be used, at least for a while, as a getaway vehicle. And, after this, he doubted Al would be prepared to bother him for weeks—or days, at the very least.

He hoped.

But maybe he should stop letting her cuddle. Just to be sure.

* * *

_Author's note: Thanks for reading. The "chew toy incident" is from Batman/Superman #40. The disembowelment is from Detective Comics 836. Both made me feel icky enough that I had to include them--they were better than my original plans. Poor little whimpering chew toy bloody straw "No loss if he doesn't make it" my ass._

_And since I'd like to end on a note of relative sanity, it's time for a brief note about heroes of the CATverse! And by heroes, I mean the good guys._

_This series isn't meant to be TAS 'verse, but certain characters do mirror their animated incarnations. Mr. Freeze, for example--and the sidekicks. Batgirl is Barbara Gordon, and likely to remain that way, no Oracle or Cassandra Cain in sight. Robin is the Tim Drake who's really Jason Todd deep down inside. And while this may change--nothing is set in stone, after all, and we, the writers, are easily distracted...shiny...flashing light...kitty._


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